I seek mine own, lov'd, native isle!
The Duchess of Tyrconnel wrote, according to promise, to Mrs. Cartwright, duly recording to her the happy turn that fortune had taken in their favour. A copy of this epistle now lies before us; but as we are no admirers of unnecessary repetition, we must take the liberty of wholly suppressing the letter of her Grace.
Before we close this short, but eventful chapter, we have to observe that the Soignies banditti, who had been arrested, were tried, identified, and executed.
Not once nor twice was Sir Patricius Placebo overheard soliloquizing to himself thus: "I am," quoth the knight, "in sooth no longer a philosopher, who is desirous inter silvas foresti (non academi) quærere verum—no, no—horribile dictu! After this confounded rencontre in cursed Soignies wood, I shall for ever forego and forswear the eating of Ortolan or Perigord pies, while I live—ahem! except—that is to say, unless I can eat them with safety in the city! for there is no general rule or law without an exception; and indeed the long-robed gentry say as much—exceptio probat regulam—ahem!
"DOSS MOI, TANE STIGMEN!"
It was at the close of the last week in August, which had now arrived, when the duke and family took their departure from Brussels, on their route for Ireland; and while they are on their way we shall conduct our readers in their transit to the succeeding chapter.